SLEEP, THAT ELUSIVE FIEND, CAME so unwillingly to the prince that it refused to remain long. Kamran awoke before dawn with a sharpness that surprised him, for he was both abed and then out of it before the sun had even met the horizon. His body was fatigued, yes, but his mind was clear. It had been running all night; his dreams fevered, his imaginings frenzied.
He’d begun to wonder whether the girl had cursed him.
She clearly knew not what she’d done to him, nor could she be blamed for her success in so thoroughly disordering his faculties, but Kamran could not conceive a more elegant explanation for what had overcome him. He was moved neither by a base need to physically possess the girl, nor was he deluded enough to think he might be in love with her. Still, he could not understand himself. Never before had he been so consumed by thoughts of anyone.
The girl was going to be murdered.
She was going to be murdered by his own grandfather, and it seemed to Kamran the worst kind of tragedy.
The prince was one of the few people who knew, of course. He and Hazan both knew of the prophecy, the foretelling of a creature with ice in its veins. Every king in the history of the Ardunian empire had received a prophecy, and King Zaal had felt it his duty to manage the prince’s expectations of such an event. Long ago his grandfather had explained to him that, on the day of his coronation, Kamran would receive two visits.
The first, from a Diviner. The other, from the devil.
The devil would offer him a bargain, the terms of which Kamran should under no circumstances accept. The Diviner, his grandfather had said, would make a prediction.
When Kamran asked what prediction the Diviners had made for him, King Zaal had grown unnaturally reticent, saying only that he’d been warned of the rise of a fearsome adversary, a demon-like creature with ice in its veins. It was said to be an enemy with allies so formidable its mere existence would lead to the king’s eventual demise.
Enraged, the young prince had promised his grandfather right then that he would search all of Ardunia for this monster, that he would slay the beast and deliver its head to the king on a pike.
You need not worry, his grandfather had said, smiling. I will slay the beast myself.
Kamran closed his eyes and sighed.
He splashed water on his face, performing his morning ablutions with care. It seemed impossible that the terrifying monster of his childhood imaginings was in fact the stunning young woman he’d encountered last night.
Kamran towel dried his face and applied orange blossom oil to his neck, to the pulse points at his wrists. He took a deep breath and drew the intoxicating scent into his body, relaxing as it warmed his chest, lowered his heart rate.
Slowly, he exhaled.
He was so unfamiliar with the feelings that possessed him now that he wondered for a moment whether he might well and truly be ill. How he’d even delivered himself to his chambers the evening prior he knew not, for he rode home through the blustery night as if in a trance. The girl’s beauty had first rendered him speechless under the most unflattering conditions— in the half-light of a vicious storm—but seeing her face by firelight had dealt him a physical blow from which he had no hope of recovering.
Worse, far worse: he thought her fascinating.
He found himself captivated by her contradictions, the choices she made, even the way she moved.
Who was she, precisely? Where had she come from?
His ambitions upon arriving at her door last night had been scattered by a battering of his senses. He’d hoped to accomplish a great deal by going to her; he’d wanted to return her packages, yes, but there was something more that had compelled his senseless visit, a motivation of which he was entirely ashamed. Had his visit been successful Kamran might’ve betrayed his king, his empire. He would’ve been reduced to the most repellant variety of idiot, instead of the next king of Ardunia.
He’d gone to warn her.
He’d gone to tell her to run, to pack her bags and flee, to find a safe place to hide and remain there, possibly forever. And yet, when he saw her face, he realized that he could not simply ask her to run; no, she was an intelligent girl, she would have questions. If he told her to flee, she would want to know why. And what reason would she have to trust him?
He’d hardly begun to process this when she’d all but dismissed him.
It was possible she’d not known who he was—she’d called him sir, at one point—but he suspected that even if she’d known she were speaking to
a prince she’d have treated him the same. In any case, it did not seem to matter.
Kamran had known his grandfather’s position on the girl; going against the king would’ve been an act of treason. Had Kamran been found out, his head would’ve been removed from his body in short order. It was some small miracle, then, that he’d lost his nerve.
Or perhaps regained his good sense.
He did not know this girl. He did not understand why the thought of killing her left him feeling ill. He only knew that he had to at least try to find another way—for surely she, a humble servant, was not the demon-like creature with an abundance of formidable allies prophesied all those years ago.
No, most assuredly not.
Kamran finished dressing himself without the assistance of his still- sleeping valet, and then—to the shock and horror of the palace servants— stole belowstairs to filch a cup of tea from the kitchens on his way out.
He needed to speak with his grandfather.
Kamran had lived at the royal palace his whole life and yet he never tired of its resplendent views, its acres of manicured gardens, its endless pomegranate groves. The grounds were of course always magnificent, but the prince never loved them more than he did at sunrise, when the world was still quiet. He stopped where he stood then, lifting the still-steaming cup to his lips.
He was standing in the illusion of a glittering infinity; the single mile of ground beneath his feet was in fact a shallow pool three inches deep. A sudden wind nudged water against his boots, the soothing sounds of gentle waves a welcome balm for his tired mind.
Kamran took another drink of his tea.
He was staring up at the soaring, open-air archways, their tens of dozens of exquisite columns planted into the shallow depths around him. The smooth white stonework of the structures was inlaid with vibrant jewels and vivid tiles, all of which benefited now from the blossom of a waking sun. Fiery light refracted against the bezel-set gems, fracturing endless prismatic colors along the sleeping grounds. More golden rays shattered through the open arches, gilding the water beneath his feet so that it looked almost like liquid bullion.
The beauty of Kamran’s life was often lost on him, but not always.
There was some mercy in that.
He finished the last of his tea and hooked a finger through its glass handle, letting the cup swing as he strode onward. With the rise of the sun came the stir of servants; snodas were popping up all around him, bustling past with vessels and trays.
Baskets of pomegranates were balanced precariously on heads, under arms. There were silver trays heaving with baklava and delicate honey grapes, others stacked high with fresh barbari bread, each oblong sheet the length of a setar. And flowers—manifold bouquets of flowers—tens of servants rushing by carrying armloads of the fragrant stems. There were copper bowls filled with glossy green tea leaves; basil and mint and tarragon piled high on gold platters. Another endless procession of snodas carried rice—innumerable, incalculable sacks of rice.
Sudden foreboding caught Kamran by the throat; he went unearthly still. Then he spun around.
There was more; there were more. More servants, more trays, more baskets and tureens and bushels and platters. Wheels of feta cheese were shuttled past; trolleys overstuffed with fresh chestnuts. There were stockpiles of vivid-green pistachios and salvers laden with saffron and tangerines. There were towers of peaches; an abundance of plums. Three servants shuffled past with a tremendous dripping honeycomb, the mass of sticky beeswax spanning the width of an oversized door.
Every second seemed to bring more.
More crates, more hampers, more sacks and wheelbarrows. Dozens and dozens of servants rushing to and fro.
It was madness.
While it was true that there was often a great deal happening at the palace, this level of activity was unusual. To see the servants getting started so early—and with so much to occupy their arms—
Kamran drew a sharp breath.
The teacup slipped from his finger, shattering as it hit the ground. These were preparations for a ball.
Kamran couldn’t believe it. His grandfather had said he might wait at least a week before confirming the date, but this—this meant the king had made the decision without him.
For him.
Kamran’s heart seemed to beat in his throat. He knew what this meant. He knew it to be an intentional unkindness. It was subterfuge glossed over with the shellac of benevolence. His grandfather wasn’t willing to wait a moment longer, instead forcing him, now, to choose a bride.
Why?
The question pounded over and over in his head, steady as a heartbeat, as he all but ran to the king’s chambers.
Kamran wasted no time upon arrival.
He pounded on his grandfather’s door in as polite a manner as he could manage, stepping back when it swung open, ignoring the servant who addressed him. He pushed forward into the room, his earlier arguments in favor of the girl’s life all but forgotten in the wake of this—this—
He turned the corner and discovered the king in his dressing room.
Kamran came to a sudden halt, his chest heaving with barely suppressed frustration. He bowed before the king, who bade him rise with a gesture of his hand.
Kamran stood, then stepped back.
It would not do to speak on the subject until the king was fully dressed, and besides, his grandfather’s valet—a man named Risq—was still in the room, assisting the king with his long velvet robes. Today King Zaal wore a scarlet set with fringed epaulets; Risq buttoned the golden center strip that was the placket, then draped a pleated blue sash across the king’s chest. This, he anchored with a heavy, intricately designed pearl belt, which he secured at the center with a single medallion: an eight-pointed star.
Dressing the king took an agonizingly long time.
There were endless layers, an infinite number of details. Kamran himself was expected to undergo a great deal of fanfare in his dress, but as he was seldom seen or required in public, he was more often spared the pomp and ceremony. Watching the king now, Kamran realized with a creeping dread that he would one day be expected to perform every tedious practice his grandfather undertook.
He clenched, unclenched his fists.
Only once every military badge and royal insignia was secured—the miniature of King Zaal’s late wife, Elaheh, was pinned in a position of prominence over his heart—and his pearl harnesses were crisscrossed over his chest, did the king ask his man to leave them. His grandfather’s ornate crown—so heavy it could be used to bludgeon a man—he held in his arms.
Kamran stepped forward, hardly parting his lips to speak, when his grandfather lifted a hand.
“Yes,” he said. “I know you’ve come to change my mind.” Kamran stiffened.
For a moment, he wasn’t sure to which problem the king was referring. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he said carefully. “Indeed, I’ve come to try.”
“Then I will be sorry to disappoint you. My position on the matter is resolute. The girl is a threat; such a threat must be removed immediately.”
The impending ball was at once forgotten.
Kamran only stared, for a moment, at the face of his grandfather: his clear brown eyes, his rosy skin, his shock of white hair, white beard, white eyelashes. This was a man he loved; one he dearly respected. Kamran had admired King Zaal his entire life, had seen him always as a paragon of justice and greatness. He wanted, with his entire soul, to agree with the king
—to stand always beside this extraordinary man—but for the first time, Kamran struggled.
For the first time, he doubted.
“Your Majesty,” Kamran said quietly. “The girl has committed no crime. She’s done nothing to threaten the empire.”
King Zaal laughed, his eyes widening in amusement. “Done nothing to threaten the empire? She is the sole surviving heir to an ancient kingdom— on our own land—and not a threat to our empire? She is the very definition.”
Kamran froze. “She—what?”
“I see you’ve not figured it out, then.” Zaal lost his smile by inches. “She is not a mere servant girl.”
Kamran felt a bit like he’d been impaled on a dull blade. He’d known there was something unusual about the girl, but this—
“How can you know for certain who she is?”
“You forget, child, that I have been searching for precisely such a creature since the day I became king. In fact I’d thought for certain I’d found her once; I assumed her dead some years ago. That she was alive was a surprise to me, but if there is ice in her veins, there can be no doubt.”
The prince frowned. This was too much to process. “You say she is the sole surviving heir to an ancient kingdom. But wouldn’t that make her—”
“Yes,” said his grandfather. “Yes. She is, among her people, considered a queen.”
Kamran took a sharp breath. “Why have you never told me about this?
That there are other kingdoms in Ardunia?”
Zaal touched two fingers to his temple; he looked suddenly tired. “They died out thousands of years ago. They are not like us, Kamran; they do not pass down their line through their children. They claim their sovereigns are chosen by the earth, marked by the infinite cold they were once forced to endure. It is said that the ice chooses only the strongest among them, for there are very few who can survive the brutality of the frost inside the body.” A pause. “Surely you must see that she is not some ordinary girl.”
“And yet— Forgive me, but she seems wholly unaware of who she is. She lives a life of the lowest status, spends her days doing backbreaking labor. Do you not think—”
“That she might be ignorant of her own self? Of what she might be capable?”
“I do think it’s possible, yes, that she doesn’t know. She appears to have no family—perhaps no one has told her—”
King Zaal laughed again, though sadly this time. “Ice runs through the girl’s veins,” he said, shaking his head. “Ice so rare it is revered, even as it damages the body. That kind of power leaves its marks, child. The girl no doubt carries the proof of her identity on her own flesh—”
“Your Majesty—”
“But yes, yes, let us pretend. For your sake let us pretend and say you are right, that she does not know who she is. What then?” The king steepled his hands under his chin. “If you do not think there are others searching for her right now, you are not paying close enough attention. Pockets of unrest in the Jinn communities continue to disturb our empire. There are many among them deluded enough to think the resurrection of an old world is the only way to move forward.”
Kamran’s jaw tensed. He did not appreciate the condescension in his grandfather’s tone. “Indeed I am well aware,” he said flatly. “I would humbly remind my grandfather that I was away from home for over a year, overseeing our armies, witnessing such accounts firsthand. It is not the threat I misunderstand, Your Highness, but the tactic. To take a preemptive strike against an innocent young woman— Would it not be worse? What if our actions against her were discovered? Would that not result in greater chaos?”
For a moment, King Zaal was silent.
“It is indeed a risk,” he said finally. “But one that has been thoroughly considered. If the girl were to claim her place as the queen of her people, it is possible, even with the brace of the Fire Accords, that an entire race would pledge their allegiance to her on the basis of an ancient loyalty alone. The Accords would be forgotten in the time it took to light a torch. The Jinn of Ardunia would form an army; the remaining civilians would riot. An uprising would wreak havoc across the land. Peace and security would be demolished for months—years, even—in the pursuit of an impossible dream.”
Kamran felt himself growing irritated and forced himself to remain calm. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, if we can imagine our Accords so easily broken, should we not be compelled to wonder what makes them brittle? If the Jinn among us would move so easily to revolt—to pledge allegiance to another—should we not first consider addressing the dissatisfaction that might move them to revolution? Perhaps if they felt more reason to be loyal to us, they would not—”
“Your idealism,” King Zaal said sharply, “is romantic. Diplomatic. And unrealistic. Can you not see my motivation for the establishment of the Accords? The entire reason I so desperately sought the unification of the races was to get ahead of the prophecy, to suture together the two groups so the Jinn could not be so easily claimed by a new sovereign—”
“My apologies,” Kamran bit out angrily. “I thought you established the Accords to bring peace to our empire, to finally end the unnecessary bloodshed—”
“And that is precisely what I did,” King Zaal thundered, more than matching his grandson’s tone. “Your own eyes cannot deny it. You have seen since the day you were born that my every effort has been in the service of our people. With my very life I’ve tried always to prevent war. To circumvent tragedy. To protect our legacy.
“One day, Kamran, I’ve no doubt you will be a great king. Until then there is much you do not see, and a great deal more you must try to anticipate. Tell me: can you imagine such a revolt finding success?”
“Does it matter?” the prince nearly shouted. King Zaal raised his chin, drew a sharp breath.
“Forgive me.” Kamran lowered his eyes and collected himself. “But does it matter whether they are capable of success? Is there not a greater danger, Your Highness, in demanding obedience from unwilling subjects?
And should any sovereign be satisfied with the tenuous allegiance of a people merely biding their time, waiting for the right moment to unleash their anger—to revolt? Would it not be wiser to allow such a people a voice now—to cool their anger now—in the interest of preventing an eruption later?”
“You are quite good,” his grandfather said coldly, “at taking clear and logical arguments and elevating them to a level so esoteric they are rendered ineffectual.
“Your reasoning, while admirably impassioned, will not weather the storms of the real world. This is not about rights, child, but reason. It is about preventing the kind of bloodshed so horrific it would keep a man from ever again closing his eyes. What astounds me most is that you, the impending heir to this throne, would even consider allowing the birth of another monarchy on your own land.” His grandfather hesitated a moment, studied Kamran’s face. “You’ve met this girl, I take it? Spoken with her?”
Kamran tensed; a muscle jumped in his jaw. “Yes,” said the king. “As I thought.”
“I do not know her, Your Majesty. Only of her, and from afar. My arguments are not influenced b—”
“You are young,” said his grandfather. “As such, you are well within your rights to be foolish. Indeed it is natural at your age to make mistakes, to fall for a pretty face and pay dearly for your folly. But this— Kamran, this would not be foolish. This would not be folly. This would be a travesty. No good can come of such an alliance. I gave you a direct command, bade you find a wife—”
A moment of madness prompted Kamran to say, “This girl has royal blood, does she not?”
King Zaal rose to his feet, abandoning his throne with an agility that belied his age. He carried a golden mace, which he slammed against the glittering floor. Kamran had never seen his grandfather angry like this—had never seen him unleash the weight of his temper—and the transformation was chilling. Kamran did not see a man in that moment, but a king; a king who’d ruled the world’s largest empire for nigh on a century.
“You would dare make a tasteless joke,” he said, chest heaving as he stared down at his grandson, “about a creature predestined to orchestrate my demise.”
Kamran swallowed. The words felt like ash in his throat when he said, “I beg you will forgive me.”
King Zaal took a deep breath, his body trembling with the effort to remain calm. It felt like centuries before he finally resumed his throne.
“You will now answer me honestly,” said his grandfather quietly. “Knowing the might of Ardunia—tell me sincerely whether you can imagine the eventual victory of such a revolt.”
Kamran lowered his eyes. “I cannot.”
“No,” said the king. “Nor I. How would they ever hope to win against us? Our empire is too old, our armies too strong, our bases scattered generously across the land. It would be a long and bloody war, and all for naught. How many lives would be lost in the pursuit of an impossible revolution?”
Kamran closed his eyes.
“You would consider risking the peace of millions,” his grandfather went on, “the unnecessary deaths of tens of thousands—to spare the life of one girl? Why? Why spare her when we already know who she will become? What she will go on to do? My dear child, these are the kinds of decisions you will be forced to make, over and over, until death strips your soul from this world. I hope I never led you to believe your task here would be easy.”
A length of silence stretched between them.
“Your Majesty,” the prince said finally. “I do not dare deny your wisdom, and I do not mean to take lightly such a prophecy from our Diviners. I only argue that perhaps we wait to cut her down until she becomes the enemy once foretold.”
“Would you wait for poison to ravage your body, Kamran, before taking the antidote you hold all the while in your hand?”
Kamran studied the floor and said nothing.
There was so much the prince longed to say, but this conversation felt impossible. How might he hope to argue in favor of leniency toward a person believed to be the provocation of his grandfather’s demise?
Were the girl to make even the slightest move against King Zaal, Kamran’s choice would be clear, his emotions undiluted. He would not scruple to defend his grandfather with his life.
The problem was that Kamran could not believe that the girl—as she existed now—had any interest in overthrowing the throne. Murdering her as
an innocent seemed to him an action dark enough to dissolve the soul.
Still, he could not say any of this for fear of offending the king, in addition to losing what little respect his grandfather had left for him. They’d never fought like this, never been so far apart on such an important issue.
Even so, Kamran felt he had to try. Just once more.
“Could we not consider,” he said, “perhaps—keeping her somewhere?
In hiding?”
King Zaal canted his head. “You mean to put her in prison?”
“Not— No, not prison, but— Perhaps we could encourage her to leave, live elsewhere—”
His grandfather’s face shuttered closed. “How can you not see? The girl cannot be free. While she is free, she can be found, she can be rallied, she can become a symbol of revolution. So long as I am king, I cannot allow it.”
Kamran returned his gaze to the floor.
He felt a savage pain lance through him then, the blade of failure. Grief. The girl would be sentenced to death because of him, because he’d had the audacity to notice her, and the self-importance to announce what he’d seen.
“Tonight,” said the king gravely, “the girl will be dealt with. Tomorrow night, you will choose a wife.”
Kamran looked up in an instant, his eyes wild. “Your Majesty—” “And we will never discuss this again.”
